


Supernal

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Cardcaptor Sakura
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Tender Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-04-21 03:11:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14275668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "For all that Yukito’s smile makes him look fragile and the span of his shoulders grants him a kind of delicacy, there’s a core of steel there that Touya has always been aware of." Touya entrusts himself to Yukito's hands, and Yukito proves himself more than capable.





	Supernal

Yukito has very steady hands. Touya has always known this: for all that Yukito’s smile makes him look fragile and the span of his shoulders grants him a kind of delicacy, there’s a core of steel there that Touya has always been aware of. He thinks he would have been able to identify it even without his sense of the supernatural _other_ that always clung so close to Yukito’s silver hair and warm eyes, because after everything Touya has been watching Yukito for years, and he’s seen the signs in all the little details that might slip by someone else. The way Yukito moves when he’s cooking, with an elegance under his motions that speaks to absolute certainty in himself, or the coordination he brings to bear in any sport he plays, however recently he’s learned the rules. And of course, as the draw of Yukito’s hands slides down over the dip of Touya’s spine to bring to mind elegant curves and tight-drawn muscles: the way he braces his grip at a bow, the catch of his fingers at fletching, the way he draws his whole body into a single line of perfect, steady tension before letting his hold go to sink the point of an arrow into the exact center of a bullseye.

Touya would be willing to hand over a lot more than his own body to the keeping of hands like that.

They don’t speak much, in moments like this. It was an awkward silence the first few times, when Touya was clumsy with inexperience and Yukito was flushed blush-pink all over the whole of his body, but it’s become easier, now, as negotiations have given way to implicit understanding, as uncertainty has capitulated to simple communion. Touya doesn’t have to put words to the offer of his hands sliding against Yukito’s body, doesn’t have to frame his desire to anything more direct than the press of his mouth against the soft part of Yukito’s lips, and Yukito answers clearly in turn, as clearly as he is now, as his palms slide up and against the dip of Touya’s back like he’s revisiting the familiar curve in his memory as much as in reality. Touya doesn’t even feel the cool of the air against his bare skin, barely thinks of the discrepancy between his own present status spread out over Yukito’s bed and Yukito kneeling next to him, still with his jeans on to grant him the excuse of decency; there’s no one to see him but Yukito, right now, and Touya has never felt the weight of Yukito’s eyes on him as anything like a burden.

Yukito is slow about the process. They both know where this is going, both know how this will culminate; but even with his skin slick with the promise of oil Yukito lingers over Touya’s back, shoulders, thighs, pressing the warm wet of his hands against Touya’s body like his fingers are explorers mapping the flex and valleys of Touya’s skin beneath him. Touya doesn’t complain; he’s hard against the sheets under him, as he has been hard since he first gave over the ease of conversation for the friction of their lips against each other, but there’s a pleasure to the tension of it, a languid appreciation to the taut ache of desire in him. It’s enough to have Yukito’s hands sliding over him, to have the immediate proof of the other’s presence warm and weighty against him, until Touya thinks he wouldn’t mind staying right here like this for the whole of the afternoon.

Time drags long, stretching and uncurling into the corners of the room around them. There’s no hurry, nothing pressing against them with the burden of responsibility; Touya can almost imagine they’re caught out-of-time in some space of Yukito’s own making, consciously or instinctively, it makes no difference. It’s enough to have that touch wandering across his body, pressing the comfort of aching weight against his tight-knotted shoulders and smoothing simple physical contact over the dip of his waist; when Yukito’s palms slide down Touya turns his face against the pillows to breathe in against the soft of the sheets beneath him as Yukito’s touch draws over his hips and down against the backs of his thighs, lingering just over his knees before Yukito’s little fingers draw in over that sensitive skin and come back up with intention enough to speak to his goal. Touya knows where that touch is going next, he can hear it in the catch of Yukito’s breathing and can feel it in the intent of the path those palms are dragging over him, and he’s relaxing even as his heart beats faster with anticipation, giving way in expectation of Yukito’s motion as if to offer his surrender before that steady touch even asks it of him.

They come together smoothly. Touya can remember the early times, punctuated with fumbling touches and shy huffs of near-laughter; they’re warm in his memory, tinged with nostalgia too keen to allow for rough edges, but they’re long past too. They don’t have to talk, now, don’t need to negotiate with the clumsy words Touya used to struggle over, when he didn’t know how to ask Yukito for what he wanted; now Yukito responds before Touya even frames a thought to clarity in his mind, reaches out in answer to some signal too unconscious for Touya to fully realize it himself. Yukito’s fingertips drag, Touya’s breath rushes out of him, and Yukito’s touch slides into him in answer, the motion so sure Touya eases for him without any need for thought. It’s instinct, now, the same thing that drew him to that soft hair and that warm smile the day they met, and it’s simple as falling, to let Yukito press forward to join the intimate shadows of Touya’s body. The tension that ripples through Touya as Yukito presses in is appreciative more than panicked, it rides the deep-down wave of heat that is washing out into him, and Yukito keeps moving, his free hand moving to brace against the dip of Touya’s hip and steady them together as he slides his touch back before urging in deliberately deeper.

There’s a rhythm to Yukito’s touch, Touya has learned, a balance to the give-and-take between them. It was overwhelming the first time; it left Touya feeling overrun, as if he’d been swept under the surface of some night-dark sea to be borne helplessly along its current. Now he knows how to give in to it, knows how to surrender and when to rock back for more. Yukito’s movement is sure, his hold at Touya’s hip is certain and his fingers press precisely against that dull ache deep in Touya’s body; and Touya gives himself over to it, gives himself up to Yukito in this as surely as he handed over the rush of power in him to Yukito’s other form. There’s no loss to this any more than there was then, however Yukito has worried; Touya thinks sometimes it would be impossible for him to lose anything by giving to Yukito, as if the other is the matched half of himself, as if they echo and reflect everything back between themselves. Yukito’s fingers press, his touch works strain in against the give of Touya’s body, and Touya gives himself up without thinking, without resistance anywhere in the languid weight of his body over the soft of the bed. There’s nothing lost, nothing he is absent by letting Yukito in; rather he’s the recipient, of heat and friction and pleasure uncoiling out from the depths of his body to tighten in his chest, to ache against the strain of his cock pinned between Yukito’s sheets and his stomach. Touya’s breath is coming faster, it catches itself on the heat rising up along his spine and prickles electricity out over his scalp and into the slack weight of his hands at his sides; and Yukito’s inhales are speeding too, matching Touya’s breath-for-breath as surely as his fingers are meeting and soothing the instinctive flex of Touya’s body against the bed beneath him.

It feels a loss, when Yukito draws his touch free. There’s an ache to the pressure, near-pain soothed back to just a sense of strange fullness by the slick between them and the care of his movement, but Touya always feels the absence when Yukito pulls back, always feels it like a hollow space in him for those few minutes of delay while the other pulls back over the bed and gets to his feet so he can strip off the last of his clothes. That’s familiar too, like a fading echo of that fear of loss that so gripped Touya for those brief, terrifying months; but Yukito’s not gone, he’s here, Touya can turn his head to see the proof of it right next to him as Yukito ducks his head over the intricacies of unfastening his belt buckle and struggling free of his jeans. Touya’s skin is still warm with Yukito’s touch, with that comfortable assurance that speaks loud to the other’s strength, and when Yukito lifts his head it’s to meet Touya’s gaze, to beam a smile at him as soft and sweet as any he’s ever offered.

“Touya,” Yukito says, his voice humming warm over the other’s name, and he steps free of his jeans and comes in to kneel on the sheets alongside Touya, to fold himself into ivory-skinned elegance at Touya’s side. The motion of his body is graceful even in that simple action; Touya imagines he can see the impression of wings outlined in the air over Yukito’s shoulders, as if some measure of Yue’s weightless elegance infuses even Yukito’s human form. “Are you okay?”

Touya rolls onto his side, giving up the comfort of his boneless sprawl over the sheets in exchange for the freedom to lift his hand up and out towards Yukito next to him. Yukito’s lips curve up onto a smile as Touya’s fingers skim his shoulder, his lashes dip as Touya brushes against the curve of his cheek; his eyes look darker for the angle, the gold of them sinking towards bronze as he ducks his head to look at Touya from under the fall of his hair. Touya lets his palm linger at Yukito’s jawline, lets the warmth of Yukito’s skin pressing against his sink into the heat already purring through his veins; and then he draws his hand back and lets his arm drop back to the sheets so he can press his palm flat to the soft under him.

“Yeah,” he says, simple agreement to a simple question, and he turns back onto his stomach, returning to his original position but with more intent behind the action this time. Yukito draws back, sliding over the smooth sheets beneath them, and Touya steadies his hands under himself to brace his weight enough that he can rock up onto his knees and arch himself off the bed. His legs flex, the strain of motion made new and immediate by the heavy relaxation that has so suffused him for the last span of time; Touya feels it as anticipation for what is to come, as Yukito moves over the end of the bed to come in behind him and fit his knees between the canted-open angle of Touya’s own. There’s a hand at his hip, the splay of elegant fingers sliding in and against Touya’s skin to settle to a gentle hold against him; and Yukito moves, coming up and rocking forward to match the angle of Touya’s hips, and Touya’s breath spills from him as the heat of Yukito’s body presses close against his own. There’s a heartbeat of adrenaline, of tension building to a breaking point of certainty: and Yukito’s legs flex, and Touya rocks himself back, and they slide together as smoothly as an arrow leaving a taut-drawn bow.

Touya doesn’t know which of them moves. It’s impossible to tell, once they’re together like this: every shift of Yukito’s hips draws pressure inside him, every reflexive ripple of heat in his body telegraphs itself to motion in Yukito. Touya’s head is ducked down, his hands are tight against the give of the sheets under him; but he’s not thinking of his position, is barely feeling the tension in his shoulders as he braces himself against the forward stroke of Yukito’s hips pressing against his own and Yukito’s body sliding into place inside him. His focus is on that forward motion, on the weight and friction working in him and the build of heat within him, the slow-rising wave of arousal coming in like the tide urging itself up over a beach. Touya is breathing faster, deep, full-body inhales that fill the whole span of his chest and shudder free with each of Yukito’s forward thrusts; over him he can hear Yukito’s breathing catching faster to match, its pace falling into counterpoint rhythm with Touya’s own. Their movement is easing, is finding out a pace that seems to form in the space between their bodies, between Touya’s surrender and Yukito’s advance, until Touya feels like he’s being swept away and far out to some endless, hazy horizon. Yukito is with him, the radiance of warm skin and the press of gentle fingers and the solid heat of his cock moving through steady-smooth thrusts; and Touya lets his focus go, and lets time go, and lets himself give in to the guidance of Yukito’s hands holding him steady over the sheets.

It seems endless, like this. Touya’s heart is pounding out a steady rhythm in his chest, his skin is going hotter with every push of Yukito’s hips and every twitch of Touya’s cock; arousal is rising up the whole length of his spine, pressure building in him with irresistible force more than as a sprint to some finish line. Touya could stay like this forever, he thinks, just lingering in the reflexive grace of Yukito’s movement, in the aching satisfaction of that friction within him; but when Yukito’s hand at his hip shifts and Yukito’s fingers reach out for him Touya doesn’t argue, doesn’t ask for greater delay. He’d be happy to linger here, would be content to stay like this for hours; but when Yukito’s fingers skim against the length of his cock Touya’s head goes back, his breath spills from him, and the rush of heat that surges through him is more than enough to make up for the break from that heat-washed haze. Yukito’s hand curls in around him, those steady fingers closing to a grip as certain now as they were at Touya’s hip, and when Yukito pulls up and over him Touya capitulates as surely as if he is that bow in Yukito’s hands, as if the flex of his shoulders and the curve of his spine are being drawn from him at the demand of that hold. Yukito strokes, and Touya gasps, and shudders, and moans; and against his spine heat unfurls like wings, spreading up and out over his body to lay claim to the core of his existence.

Touya is being carried away, is being laid bare, is giving up everything as quickly as Yukito’s touch calls it from him; and Yukito huffs a breath in the back of his throat, his fingers twist and pull, and Touya spasms in helpless answer, “ _Yuki_ ” dragging itself free of his throat as his cock twitches and spills pleasure over the grip of Yukito’s fingers and the sheets of his bed. Touya’s fingers clench against the blankets, convulsive tension rippling through his body in time with the gasp of his breathing and the rush of heat; and then the strain eases, the first wave of sensation pulls back to quivering satisfaction, and Yukito gusts an exhale and lets his grip go to return his hold to Touya’s hips instead. Touya shuts his eyes against the shadows of the blankets before him, closing out vision to let the aftershocks of heat eclipse his awareness, to let the tremors of his orgasm wash over him with each of Yukito’s speeding thrusts; and then Yukito’s breathing breaks, air gives way to a whimper of near-pain, and Touya feels Yukito’s fingers at his skin tighten for a moment as the other follows him into pleasure. Yukito shudders against him, his legs flexing over the last few half-formed movements; and then his hold eases, his breath rushes to a gasp of relief, and Touya feels the last of the tension of anticipation in his body go slack with the satisfaction of shared pleasure.

Yukito is gentle in drawing back, as careful as he was with that first delicate touch. Touya still feels the ache of friction relieved, the strange tension of sudden emptiness inside him, but with the glow of pleasure in him it’s easier to relax into that too as he tips sideways to roll over onto his back. Yukito is still kneeling at the end of the bed when Touya looks up at him; his mouth is soft, his eyes are dreamy, his hands are slack in his lap. He’s the picture of satiation, from the color across his cheeks to the pace of his breathing still coming fast in his chest, and Touya doesn’t hesitate in lifting a hand out to him. Yukito takes it at once, smiling at the touch so his cheek dimples with pleasure, and when Touya tugs Yukito tips forward immediately to fit himself against the support of the other’s body. They end with Yukito lying almost entirely atop Touya, one hand bracing against the sheets beneath them and the other curling up and against the fall of Touya’s hair against the pillow, and both of them so near that the heat of Touya’s exhales fogs the bottom edge of Yukito’s glasses. Touya can watch Yukito’s gaze slide up and across his face, can watch affection soften all the lines of the other’s expression as Yukito looks down at him. He looks otherworldly like this, with his mouth relaxed and his eyes flickering behind the weight of his glasses, like something angelic lost in the mundanities of the human world.

Touya lifts his hand to touch against the silver of Yukito’s hair, to feather through the give of it. Yukito’s lashes flutter, his gaze drops to meet Touya’s, and Touya takes a breath to speak.

“Yuki,” he says, and lifts his free hand to press against the dip of Yukito’s waist, to hold the other steady where he lies. “You know I love you.”

Yukito’s smile breaks wide and brilliant over his face; it crinkles in the corners of his eyes and curves against his lips and flashes white against his teeth, and he’s suddenly very human, just a high school boy with soft eyes and beautiful hands smiling at his boyfriend. “I do,” he says. His hand comes up to Touya’s face, his thumb catches to draw against the line of the other’s cheek; when he ducks down his glasses bump Touya’s nose, his hair falls to brush Touya’s forehead. “I love you too, Touya.”

Touya hums in the back of his throat, agreement and satisfaction in equal parts; and then he lifts his chin, and Yukito is ducking in to press his lips to Touya’s mouth even before Touya’s hand has slid around to brace at the back of his head. Yukito’s fingers slide a caress through Touya’s hair, Yukito offers a soft sound of appreciation against Touya’s lips, and Touya lets his arm come up and around to hold Yukito close against him while he loses himself to the sweet of the other’s mouth.

Touya’s hold on Yukito is as steady as Yukito’s on him.


End file.
